


Forgotten Sherlock - a collection of moments

by Moreshipssthanthenavy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Greg Lestrade, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, Caring Sherlock, Crying Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Sherlock, Fluff, Gen, Hot Chocolate saves lives, Hyper Sensitive, Mrs hudson being an angel, NYE - Freeform, NYE at bakerstreet, Sad Sherlock, Sensitive Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Can't Sleep, Sherlock Fluff, Sherlock Whump, Sweet Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock, canon sherlock, cute fic, johnlock if you squint, mrs hudson - Freeform, sally is a twat, sherlock has a headache, sherlock has a migraine, sleep difficulties, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moreshipssthanthenavy/pseuds/Moreshipssthanthenavy
Summary: I came across this list of (sweet) things Sherlock has done in the books, so canon moments. When a friend of mine said someone should write one shots, I couln’t help but start this collection.Please enjoy.





	1. Pillow Fort

**Author's Note:**

> For Irene, because you goddamn deserve this.

**September 7th**

'Sherlock?' John called out when he entered the flat. He had been gone for 2 days to a congress in Edinburgh, which had been shit, truly shit, but being away from Sherlock had been weirdly… good? He had the opportunity to visit a pub without worrying about being back too late and waking Sherlock by accident, which had happened in August and left Sherlock pissed for at least 3 days. John loved that he could read the paper just for the news, and didn't need to look for cases in articles. He loved that he could brew a terrible cup of tea and be the only one who drank it.  
He did miss the long sighs from Sherlock when John muttered things to the telly, the chaotic energy Sherlock seemed to emit when he had an idea for a case and Sherlock's smile.  
Okay, he missed Sherlock.  
So when he didn't hear a grunt from the couch, kitchen, bathroom, or bedroom, he admittedly was a bit disappointed. He had hoped Sherlock would at least welcome him home when he arrived back late after the flight. Sherlock was a grown man, who could do whatever he wanted, but John still felt a twinge of pain inside his heart.   
He dropped his luggage, kicked off his shoes and started making (a rubbish) cup of tea. He wanted to grab some milk out of the fridge when he saw a note on the dining table.  
' _Away on a case, feel free to join me,…_ ' was written on it with scrawled letters, and a card with an address, laid on top of the torn piece of (Thai menu?) paper. John exhaled, maybe he had been worried not knowing where Sherlock was, but again, grown-up man, John reminded himself.  
He sighed, it was already late, and he really didn't want to leave again. He convinced himself to at least drink his tea and then consider joining Sherlock.  
Just when he finished his tea, the light ticking of rain began on the window. John grunted, but got up and dressed anyway, he just wanted to see Sherlock again, that wasn't a crime surely?

\-----

It had begun thundering since John had arrived at the address. He texted Sherlock when he arrived at the suburban home, in case Sherlock was in a sensitive situation. He looked up into the rain and saw a faint glow from one of the rooms on the upper level. His phone buzzed.

  
_'the door is open,_ do _feel free to let yourself in - SH'_

  
John stepped into the small home, completely dark, except for the light from the above the stairs. It was nice, although a little cluttered. There was a child living in this home, John noticed as he walked through the hallway to the stairs. The boom of thunder made him wince, and he silently prayed this weather would stop again soon. Little pink shoes stood under the coat rack, toys were lined up on a side table, and drawings were stuck onto the halls. Proud parents, then, John concluded. He was (deservingly so) proud of the deduction skills he picked up from Sherlock. He grinned and walked up the stairs. When he reached the upper level of the family home, he saw where the light was coming from. A door with pink decorations stood slightly open, and a yellow glow and moving lights were coming from inside. John moved quietly, looking around him while he was doing so, and pushed the door open wider so he could properly look inside the room.

  
What he saw made his stomach flutter and pulled the corners of his mouth in a wide grin. The room he was looking into was clearly for the child in the family. Pink cabinets, pink bedsheets, yellow walls and other ultra sweet decorations decorated the tiny room. The thick white curtains were pulled shut, but John could still hear the faint sound of rain clattering down onto the earth and the flashes of light from the occasional thunder.  
His gaze moved down and he couldn’t help but smile again.  
Different sheets (pink and with flower motive) were stuck to the corner and a wall of the room, pillows scattering from the fort, small lights emitting the glow he saw from outside, and the sweetest of all, he was two lanky legs and sock-clad feet sticking out from the pillow fort. He held his breath as he moved closer, now hearing a softly whispered lullaby in a baritone voice he had missed so much. He crouched down and moved one sheet away to look into the fort. Here he saw Sherlock sitting in a small mountain of pillows, with a small girl in his arms, both half covered under a thick fleece blanket, and the girl also wrapped in Sherlocks Coat, tightly against his chest. John had never seen the man he knew so well for being, as Anderson so wonderfully put it, “ _always on his high horse, stamping on everyone he damn well likes to and being bloody adored for it too_.”, so soft. His features were softly illuminated as he looked down to the girl while his mouth barely moved to softly sing a lullaby. He looked like he was 20, his hair ruffled by the sheets, and a slight rose colour on his cheeks from sitting in the pillow fort. Because he was so close to the two now he could see the tracks of tears on the peaceful looking face of the girl.  
Sherlock moved his gaze up to meet Johns, and John almost thought he would combust right there. Sherlock's eyes glittered wonderfully from all the lights around him, and to make matters worse for John, he smiled slightly.

  
“Sorry, I couldn’t meet you at the airport, John,” Sherlock whispered softly, so softly John almost couldn’t hear it over the storm outside. John quickly shook his head, “no, you were clearly doing very… important client work?” He smirked at the man sitting in front of him and placed his hand on Sherlock’s leg to support his crouching position. Sherlock repositioned his arms around the girl, but the girl frowned and emitted a soft whine. Sherlock shushed her and she pushed her tear clad face deeper into Sherlock’s chest. “Very important, indeed.” Sherlock moved his torso from the wall and indicated John to grab the girl. While John did this, Sherlock sang soft words to the girl and both men tried to silently stand up. After some manoeuvring John had managed to place the girl in her bed, her hand s clamped onto Sherlock’s coat. “Go make some tea, I’ll finish up here,” Sherlock said, already getting back into his normal behaviour. John did as he was told, but not before he looked back at the young man stroking the girl’s forehead and singing (somewhat louder now) her back into deep slumber.

———  
John was finishing up making tea when he heard Sherlock entering the kitchen. Sherlock shot him an embarrassed smile and sat down at the tiny dining table. “This was not the plan I had for tonight,” Sherlock began after sitting in silence with his tea and looking into the garden. “What happened?” John couldn’t contain his curiosity anymore. “A client had unexpected, even for me, news, and had to leave town for tonight. She couldn’t find a nanny.” Sherlock shook his head, smiling. “I offered my, professional, nanny services.” He said as he looked John into the eyes. John couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of this statement. Before John could ask more questions, Sherlock continued. “When I arrived I made dinner,” gesturing to the kitchen. “Then the thunder began, and the girl got very anxious. I had to take drastic measures to make sure she was content.” Sherlock swallowed nervously as if he was concerned of John’s opinion. “You always manage to impress me, Sherlock,” John said fondly. Sherlock tried to stifle a yawn but failed miserably. “We can’t go home yet,” John said. “No, indeed we can’t, my coat is still here.”


	2. The helping hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets into a painful situation, of course, John is there for him, and Lestrade will always have Sherlock's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit less fluff, more angst, just how I enjoy it. Has a good ending!

 

It had been a long week. Actually, it had been a long month.

It started with a small case, which had Sherlock solved within 48 hours. This small, innocent case had been the starting point for a total tidal wave of work because Sherlock had found out that this family had connections with a large company shipping out cocaine and heroin to Peru. After a gruelling week of running after Sherlock and trying to catch the workers mid ship off, the case was near finished, or so John thought.

John, Sherlock and a large team of police arrived at a small shipping dock in the early hours of the morning. Sherlock had his usual high energy around him, and he was the most chaotic John had seen him in a while. The group moved closer to the shipping containers where workers were walking to and fro with supplies.

Then it had a gone so quickly. There was shooting, shouting, eventual screams and then silence. John later found out what happened exactly: one of the workers had spotted them, shouted and the police force had shot the worker and remaining workers on sight. There was a lot of commotion to check if the place was clear, and Lestrade was urging everyone to keep clear until he had confirmation that the area was safe. John looked behind him to check if Sherlock was alright, but he didn't see the lanky man standing behind him. A surge of panic went through him, and he held his breath as his eyes frantically looked around. 

He spotted Sherlock jogging to the shipping container the workers were loading. Lestrade apparently saw the detective too and tried to shout him back. John knew better than to give Sherlock commands, it didn't help, and it never worked.

Sherlock disappeared into the container, and the area seemed to all collectively hold their breath for what would happen next. It seemed like an eternity when John heard what he definitely did not want to hear.

”I need medical crew, _now_!” he heard Sherlock muffled shout out from the container.

He shot a look to Lestrade, waiting for his confirmation on the medical team. ”The area hasn’t been cleared yet, I can’t send them in,” Lestrade said while he was punching in a number on his phone.

”Fuck this, ” John growled, and moved past the DI and sprinted to where he heard the shout. He didn't have any equipment, but he had more expertise, and the panicked tone Sherlocks voice had meant he needed all the support he could get.

He announced his presence by softly calling out Sherlock's name. ”John, over here, quick.” he heard the soft panting in the sentence which made his mind spin with quick diagnosis and how to handle them. John moved past the wooden boxes and encountered Sherlock huddled over a bundle of blankets in the back of the container. ”Sherlock, what’s happening?” he asked and moved closer. Sherlock was clearly shaking and the curls in the back of his neck were wet with sweat. He moved around the bundle of blankets to crouch directly in front of the man. John knew better than to touch Sherlock in this situation, it might set the detective off completely.

John now noticed what the bundle of blankets was, there was a girl under them, and Sherlock was frantically trying to stop the bleeding from a wound in her torso.”Help me, I don’t know what to do!” Sherlock gritted through his teeth. John immediately took the pulse of the victim, faint and on the verge of disappearing. John couldn't help but think back to the soldiers and civilians he had to leave behind when he encountered a pulse like that in Afghanistan. ”Let me help, let me help.” John pushed Sherlocks shaking hands away and began to apply sufficient pressure to the wound. Sherlock fell back against one of the wooden boxes, but he scrambled back up quickly. He tried to move over to her head and was now talking small talk to the girl. He had his fingers in her hair and tried to wipe the blood from her face with his scarf. The girl was non-responsive and John knew what that meant.

As John was trying to asses the extent of the wound and to find a better position to pressure her wound, he felt the relaxation of the body under him he hadn't felt in a long time. Sherlock emitted a sound John would never want to hear again, it was animalistic and desperate, two things that didn't blend with the detective.

John moved from the girl and checked her over once more, but concluded she had died. When he stood up and wanted to move out of the container with Sherlock, he saw that the detective was a gasping mess, and trying to still apply pressure to the wound. ”She’ll live.. You’ll live.. I promised!” he forced out between gasps. He crouched in front of the detective again, and this time took his upper arms firmly in his hands. ”Listen to me, you can't do anything for her, we need to get you to safety,” he said in a firm tone. Sherlock's eyes met his, and John’s heart broke in a million pieces. Tears were threatening to spill over, his hair was ruffled and chaotic, blood was smeared on his cheeks, and his eyebags seemed to weigh a ton. ”Sherlock, listen. Breathe for me,” he said, this time softer. ”In and out, remember?” Sherlock sputtered and coughed, but eventually managed to get to a better breathing tempo. ”Let’s get you out of here.” he pulled the younger man up right and Sherlock leaned heavily against him, his legs shaking and his energy seemingly gone. 

They moved out of the container slowly, Sherlock threatening to fall over at every second. His hands were clamping Johns jacket tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure. They were nearing the police crowd standing on the docks when someone shouted: "Hey, freak!" That was Sally then. They were now a couple of meters away from the group and multiple police officers grunted in annoyance. "Good job with ruining the investigation, you led us to a total set up!" a police officer spat out to Sherlock. John felt Sherlock hunch over and beginning to shake again. Sherlock stopped walking and John heard his breathing speed up again. "Showing us your Oscar-worthy performance skills again, weirdo?" a man said from the back of the crowd. John felt Sherlock's legs give in, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold the man from falling. 

That was when Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's other arm and hauled him up more. "What are you all doing? Stop standing around, and begin doing your goddamn job!" Lestrade yelled to the remaining officers. "There will be consequences for this behaviour!" 

John looked at Lestrade and nodded. The two of them almost carried Sherlock to a police car standing a bit farther away. By this point, Sherlock was back to gasping and his head was hanging low with his hair covering a part of his face. "We'll get you sorted out, mate," Lestrade said softly and guided him into the backseat of the car. Lestrade waited a second before letting John get in too. Lestrade's expression said enough. ”Human trafficking ring, I think, a girl wounded in the container, she died in our hands.” John knew this sounded harsh, but the information needed to be given quickly. Lestrade swallowed and let John get in too, and closed the door softly before stepping into the driver's seat.  

Sherlock was now sitting with his head in his hands, and his breathing was only getting faster. Lestrade looked back once more before starting the car and driving off. John grabbed Sherlock's arm, trying to catch his attention. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he broke down into a coughing fit which left him huddled. John rubbed his back and tried to coax him to calm down. Meanwhile, Lestrade was talking on the phone to give the found information to the other officers. He sounded stressed and incredibly pissed, John was glad he wasn't a worker for Lestrade. 

"Drop us off at Bakerstreet?" John plead. He wanted Sherlock to be home, a safe place where he could come down from this bad high. Lestrade hummed in agreement. Sherlock had begun turning into himself, rubbing his hands together and muttering to himself. This worried John endlessly, he knew how destructive Sherlock's mind could get. 

The car slowed down, and they arrived at Bakerstreet. Sherlock moved suddenly, throwing the door open and staggering to 221b. Lestrade grunted, "make sure he's okay, alright? I'll check in later. I'll do the statements later." John smiled sadly and quickly followed the detective. When he entered the hallway, he saw Sherlock clamping to the wall to stay upright. "Let me help you upstairs, at least." John huffed, and grabbed him by the waist to keep him steady. "Leave.. me..." Sherlock panted. "Alone, yeah, yeah. I'll do that in a bit."  John replied, rolling his eyes. 

When they both got upstairs, Sherlock immediately shuffled to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. The shower started and kept going for at least an hour before John knocked on the door. He knew Sherlock wanted time alone after this devastating afternoon, but this was worrying him now. "Sherlock? Are you okay?" he called out, pushing his ear to the door to hear the reply. "J'hn" was the reply he got, almost a soft groan. John's heart lurched, and his head was spinning. "I'll get the key, hold on!" John ran to the key bowl and fished out the key that belonged to the bathroom door. He quickly unlocked it with steady hands before storming in. 

Sherlock was sitting fully clothed under the steady stream from the shower. John had never seen Sherlock looking so lost, and small, and he would never want to see him like that again. He quickly moved closer and turned off the now cold shower, the reply he got for the action was Sherlock groaning. "The blood... my hands... off... it needs to be gone... remove it..." he stuttered, rubbing his hands together. John smiled sadly, grabbing Sherlock's hands and using a generous amount of shampoo to clean off the remaining blood from Sherlock's long fingers. He cleaned them off completely before talking to Sherlock again. "That's better?" The reply he got was instant, Sherlock wordlessly humming and his eyelids drooping. "Thank you...''

 

\---

 

3 days later, Sherlock was mostly back to his usual self. The three days were filled with sulking around the flat and almost no talking from Sherlock. Lestrade had called if they could come by the station to make their statements concerning the case. Sherlock seemed nervous. When they were heading to Lestrades office they walked through the open office. "Freak!" Sally yelled, multiple officers, breaking out in laughter. "All better now, sweetie?" She said in a sweet voice. "Feeling alright after you failed us and that girl?" the group burst out in laughter and Sherlock quickly strode into Lestrade's office. "Shut the hell up, Sally. You don't know what you're talking about." John spat out and followed Sherlock. 

Lestrade was standing in front of Sherlock, they were quietly talking to each other. John moved closer. "You did everything you could, Sherlock. She was already fragile, no one could have saved her." Lestrade said, trying to look into the detective's eyes. "I just don't understand what I did wrong. Everyone dislikes me. I tried so hard..." Lestrade took a deep breath in. "Listen to me. You are the most talented and smart person I know. You can be a complete and utter arse, but you almost never say something to hurt someone. You are so brave, Sherlock. You are so strong." He grabbed Sherlock and gave him a big hug. "I'm so proud of you." Sherlock began to sob into Lestrade's shoulder. He wrapped his arms around the DI and pushed his face into his shoulder. "It's okay, don't worry so much about it, okay, you have us to talk to," sobs continued to shake the thin body of the detective. He pushed himself from the DI and looked him into the eye. Tears were streaming down his face and he was gasping for breath. "Thank you, Greg, thank you, thank you, thank you." he hugged the DI again and continued to mutter into his shoulder.

''I know, Sherlock, I know," Lestrade sighed. "You are always welcome here, I'll make sure of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this, please don’t forget to leave kudo’s and feel free to write a review <3


	3. Scrapbooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When boredom takes over, it takes over Sherlock’s mind. Mrs. Hudson thinks of a solution. 
> 
> Fluffy, with Sherlock being sweet af

Boredom came and went.  
But when it came, it was a creature which wrapped its tendrils around Sherlock and slowly suffocated him. It was the water which crept into the apartment and soaked into his brain. It was the white noise that swallowed everything around him and made him disappear.  
He despised boredom in all its forms.  
Sherlock had been _fine_ , he had told himself. He had solved a case about a stolen painting, which admittedly had been a little…. chaotic. The case had taken him through multiple archives and forgotten libraries to find all the information he needed. The scraps of paper now filled the walls and were spread out on all the surfaces he could see.  
He stretched out his languid figure and stretched his hands and feet. What was the time? He glanced at the pocket watch hanging from the ceiling (why was that there? An experiment?) 16:00, right. It would be another 2 hours before John came back from work, maybe even later if he was chatting with co-workers. Sherlock found the thought excruciating. He believed that mundane small talks were the killer of friendships.  
Sherlock squinted his eyes and glanced around the room. Even he could see that it was a mess, but somehow he was proud of the mess of paper scraps on the wall. The different suspects were connected to places with red string. He used the red string because he once saw it on a police show, and found it satisfying to look at.  
He let his hand fall off the couch and he accidentally pushed over a stack of newspapers he had needed, although he couldn't think of the _why_ anymore. The stack landed against another stack of stuff and threw over a small side table on which he had stacked 3 coffee mugs. We watched the domino effect with a weird enjoyment. He knew he could stop the falling of paper stacks and destruction if he wanted to but the destruction pushed the ever watching boredom an inch away.  
A minute after the crash of the 3 mugs, he heard a distinct foot pattern walking up the stairs. Mrs Hudson. The door swung open and Mrs Hudson worriedly looked inside. When she concluded that Sherlock wasn't wounded or the flat wasn't burning, her gaze wandered over to where Sherlock was laying. She exhaled loudly and shuffled closer through the mess. She grabbed his legs and swung them over the side of the couch, so she could sit down. She began with: "Now, Sherlock. This can't go on for any longer."  
Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes at that statement. How many times had he heard that in his life? He could recall 37 times. "What can't go on? _Life_? The _pollution_?" He didn't look at Mrs Hudson but moved his gaze up to the ceiling. He could see the grime of people. This could disgust him endlessly, and he filed this thought for later experimentation.  
Mrs Hudson sighed again. "Don't play dumb, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you." She clasped her hands together. She stayed quiet for a moment and examined the flat. "Don't you want to clean the flat a little bit, just to make John happy? He has had such a long week at the surgery. It _is_ flu season."  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and lifted his head to look at Mrs Hudson. "How would cleaning make people happy?" He spat out the sentence with disgust.  
Mrs Hudson let out a chuckle, "I'm not going to lecture you on the mysteries of human psychology and happiness, but a _clean…er_ , flat would make John happy. At least make him content."  
Sherlock frowned. Human psychology was something that puzzled him endlessly. He did want John happy, seeing him stressed made him stress too. John got happiness from good food, going on cases with him, and….a clean flat apparently. This was a new fact that had to be studied, but cleaning seemed impossible in his current state.  
The silence had lasted too long because Mrs Hudson began speaking again. "I might have an idea, give me a minute." She patted his hip and stood up.

Sherlock didn't really notice her leaving, because when she came back she dropped a box on his lap. When Sherlock didn't move, she pursed her lips. "Look inside, I didn't just give you a box!"  
Sherlock sat up more against the couch and opened the lid of the box. He peered inside and saw an array of… _crafting supplies_? His expression had said enough because Mrs Hudson burst out in laughter. She moved closer to grab a book out of the box. "Here, this is one of my old scrapbooks, I used to love making vacation books." she handed him the empty scrapbook.

Sherlock turned it over in his hands and flipped through the book. It had a light blue linen cover, with fabric flowers decorating the corners. The inside was crème toned, the paper was thick and had a slight texture. He looked at Mrs Hudson, he opened his mouth and quickly closed it again. He frowned and once more looked at the book in his hands. "You want _me_ to _scrapbook_?"  
"I think it would be a good way to store all your paper scraps," she answered, gesturing to the walls. "It would preserve all your work and you could look back at the case more easily."  
His frown deepened. He never thought about the significance of his paper research, he normally just chucked it into the bin, never to be seen again.  
A beeping sound came from downstairs, "Oh, that's the oven, my dear." She smiled at him and patted the book in his hands. "I'll leave you at it," She stood up and moved carefully to the door. She stuck her head around the door before leaving to say: "You know where to find me if you want to return that stuff." She winked before closing the door.

What was he supposed to _do_ , now? Why would he enjoy something so _mundane_ as scrapbooking? So, why were his hands placing the box on the floor and opening the book on the kitchen coffee table? Why was he pulling pictures off the wall and cutting them and moving them around on the crème paper and then sticking them on? Scrapbooking was for old ladies, so why was he using a pen from the box to write down what the scraps meant and where they came from?  
His phone buzzed,

  
_John at 18:17: 'I'll be home late, don't worry. See you tonight.'_

 

* * *

 

 

The light was still burning from 221B when John finally came home. It had been a long day filled with crying children and coughing (whining) adults, and he desperately needed to unwind.

So, when a new nurse asked him to dinner, and dinner ended up in drinks, he didn't mind. It had been a fun night, but the girl wasn't someone John would like for longer than 2 weeks. He told her that he would keep contact, not a full lie, but not true either.

  
He was happy to finally get home and to see the havoc Sherlock caused in 221B today. It had been worse than he had ever seen it and it left him stressed, but he couldn't get Sherlock to move and bloody _clean_. He exhaled loudly before entering the flat.  
He expected a lot of scenarios, like Sherlock on the couch sulking, Sherlock running through the apartment, Sherlock randomly dancing, but what he saw was something he couldn't have imagined.  
"Sherlock?" he asked with caution, you just never knew what to expect. Sherlock snapped his head around, his smile lopsided. He was holding scissors and a picture of a suspect. He was sitting on the ground, surrounded by paper fragments, but the rest of the apartment was somehow decently tidy?  
He walked closer to the man sitting on the ground and saw the book spread out in front of him.  
_A scrapbook?_  
_Sherlock scrapbooking?_  
"John, don't look so daft, I'm doing something completely normal!" Sherlock exclaimed, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

John huffed, and walked into the kitchen to make tea. He was frowning, not understanding why Sherlock was doing scrapbooking. _A case maybe?_ He was just pouring water into a mug when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm. How could the man always _sneak_ onto him? "Don't scare me like that, I have told you this before!" John said through gritted teeth.  
Sherlock moved back slightly, turning his head down. John turned around to have a better look at him. His hands were fidgeting, and he was chewing on his lip. John sighed, dropping his tea into the hot water.  
Sherlock startled him again. "Why aren't you _happy_?"  
"What do you mean?" John's frown deepened, again.  
Sherlock hid his face in his hands, seemingly annoyed or frustrated. He strode out of the kitchen and headed to his room. Before he closed his door, he exclaimed:  
"I _cleaned_!"

* * *

 

John hadn't slept well after the exchange he and Sherlock had the night before. He didn't understand what had come over Sherlock to act like that, or why he was so frustrated. _Bored Sherlock_ John could deal with, but this was something completely new. He walked downstairs and didn't see Sherlock, but Mrs Hudson. She was filling the fridge with some groceries. "Good morning, John." He opened his mouth to answer, but the kept talking. "Aren't you glad the flat is clean again? You must be _happy_."  
John closed his eyes when he understood what this meant about Sherlock's behaviour yesterday. He shook his head lightly and looked at Mrs Hudson. "Yes, you're totally right, Mrs Hudson." He kissed the top of her head and began making toast.

 

* * *

 

John came home at 18:00 that day, hoping Sherlock was home. He hadn't seen him before he left to go to the surgery. He wanted to apologize, Sherlock had clearly tried to make him less stressed and he just didn't _notice_.  
But Sherlock wasn't home. John kicked off his shoes, happy to finally sit in his chair after a long day and scroll through the comments of the blog a bit. He had been neglecting the blog, but now the flu season was dying down, he had some energy left after his shift.  
He was ready to let himself fall into his chair, when he, just in time, saw a little package sitting on his chair, propped up against the union cushion. He grabbed it and opened the little card connected to it by some twine.

" _This is sentimental, but I want you to have this. -SH_ " was written on it with long elegant letters.

He opened the package carefully and saw that it was the scrapbook he had seen Sherlock work on when he came home yesterday. The front made his heart flutter. He and Sherlock together stuck together with tape, a small crown on John's head, and a picture of a  deerstalker stuck on Sherlock. The thing that made John's eyes fill up with tears was something else though.

The title was made up out of cut out newspaper letters:  
" _The adventures of John Watson."_ [scrapbook [cover art](https://izzyvogel.tumblr.com/post/180593268087/for-my-fanfiction-forgotten-sherlock-a)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave kudos and write a review!!


	4. Hot Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot Chocolate can be used to wake someone up, but also decently helps someone fall asleep. And body heat of course. 
> 
> This is kinda a continuation of an earlier chapter, chapter 2. Kinda Johnlock but just mostly fluff and soft Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will come back to clean up this me as I don't have my laptop with me right now! Enjoy though :)

"…John?" silence. "John." Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and shook John's shoulder lightly. They had (luckily) found a room in a rundown motel in the countryside. The room was filled with flushed out flower print, cheap wood, and 8 scented candles. Sherlock glanced at the clock again. He could let John sleep some more, it had been such a long day. He looked so _peaceful_ … He shook his head, no, John had urged him to wake him before noon. He had gone off on a tangent about sleep schedules, and how they affected the brain and body, Sherlock hadn't listened.   
No, if John had asked him, he must. He sighed deeply.  
"John, wake up. You asked me to wake you before noon."  
It hurt Sherlock to wake John when he looked so, completely, at peace. John was wrapped in an old duvet, one arm thrown over his head. His mouth was slightly agape and a soft blush tinted his cheeks. Sherlock's heart fluttered, and he pressed his lips together as he once more shook the sleeping man before him. John turned from his back to his side. Sherlock now had a better view of the man in front of him.  
John was wearing an old grey rugby tee, thin from the heavy use. It was too large, which meant he could see John's collarbones. Sherlock could only wonder how a person could be so-  
John stretched his arms above him and groaned softly. Sherlock's breath hitched and he waited till John fully awoke from his slumber. He couldn't help as his gaze wandered down to the little blonde hairs on John's stomach, trailing down-  
John took a deep breath as his eyelids fluttered open. " _Sherlock_? Wha- what? Is everything okay?" Sherlock smiled slightly and nodded instantly. "You asked me to wake you." He said plainly. John pressed his palms to his eyes and sighed deeply. "Right, I did." He pushed himself up on the bed and looked around the room. It looked so _cosy_.

  
The room reminded him of the extra bedroom in his granny's house. Only that one was covered in cat hair and three extra plaids on the bed at all times. It also smelled like something was dead at all times. He didn't like sleeping there as a kid.

  
He brought his gaze back to Sherlock and was met with a steaming mug shoved in his direction. "Hot chocolate, you once mentioned you loved hot cocoa in the morning so I…" Sherlock's voice trailed off and John noticed the red spots creeping up his neck. He took the mug and grinned, "Thanks, I appreciate it." he took a deep breath of the sugary drink. He looked at Sherlock again, and now noticed how worn he looked. He was pale and the dark circles around his eyes looked almost drawn on. He looked at the bed next to his and saw the blankets were still neatly spread onto the bed. "Did you not hear what I said about sleep last night?" Sherlock turned his head away from John's inquisitive gaze. He heard John take a sip from the drink and shuffle under the blanket.  
Sherlock opened his mouth but closed it quickly again. It took a couple more seconds before he found the courage to talk, "I couldn't fall asleep. My head- I just couldn't… I just--” frustration overcame him, and he grabbed the object closest to him. ” _Argh_!" He threw the water glass from John's bedside table to the wall. He threw his head in his hands and pulled softly on his curls. _Why couldn't his thoughts just stop?_

  
He hadn't even heard John move from under his blanket and sit next to him. John laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and softly stroked his back. "Hey, I didn't mean it like that. It's not your fault," he paused and gently drew Sherlock's hands from his hair. "Can you tell me why? Maybe I can help you?" He held Sherlock's fidgeting hands tightly in his. When the man didn't seem to even hear him, he took his chin and turned his head towards him. The icy blue eyes met his and John smiled sadly. "There you are. What's wrong? Please tell me." Sherlock pushed his eyes shut and his frown seemed to deepen. He inhaled deeply but didn't begin to talk. His breath was too shallow for his liking, and his heart contracted at the sight of the man. It was eerily silent in the room, except for the breath of the two men. "Is the death of the girl still bothering you? From the dock?" When Sherlock's breath hitched, John knew enough. "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have saved her." At this, Sherlock began to shake his head. "I could have applied pressure more _evenly_ , or… or keep her _conscious_ , I should have urged her more to stay awake… _I just didn't know_." He stuttered out the sentence with great difficulty, a sign to John that the detective was running on his last energy. John sighed. "I wouldn't lie to you, if you could have acted better, I would have taught you afterwards. Remember how I taught you to stitch up a wound properly?" Sherlock nodded silently.

He did remember, it was after he had tried to stitch up his wound himself. John had thrown a small tantrum and did all the work over. He had bought a pigs leg that afternoon and forced Sherlock to practice till the stitching looked textbook perfect. After that learning experience, Sherlock had asked John to give him more lessons on basic medical procedures.

  
"I wouldn't lie to you, I promise." John pinched Sherlock's hands. "Now, is there anything I can do to help?"  
Sherlock took a deep (shuddering) breath. " _I don't know how,_ " he whispered.  
John cringed internally. He knew Sherlock had difficulty with sleeping. He always had a hard time finding sleep and getting enough of it. He remembered Sherlock once telling him he had a bad reaction from sleeping pills, he became paranoid, Sherlock had told him.  
"At least take a hot shower, your shoulders look like they're locked up," John suggested. Sherlock stood up without a word and moved into the bathroom. John heard the shower starting and remembered he had a hot chocolate to drink.

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

Sherlock moved into the bedroom again, with dripping hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. He sat down on the side of the bed and started to his hands for a moment. When Sherlock still didn't move after minutes, John moved to sit on the opposite side of the bed. "You want some help with your hair?" He offered, grabbing the towel hanging from the end of the bed. John didn't know what made him ask this, was he dumb? He expected a ” _mother hen comment_ ” and he waited for a beat. No answer. John hesitated for a moment before shifting closer to Sherlock and beginning to dry off his hair. "I don't know if you dry it in a particular way." He could imagine Sherlock having an elaborate way to manage his (absolutely gorgeous) curls. "I mean, I don't have curls. I don't want to ruin your look." Sherlock huffed at this statement. "I normally dry it upside down," Sherlock confessed, smiling slightly. "Alright, then. Bend over," John walked around the bed and stood in front of Sherlock. "I can do it, John," Sherlock said, already grabbing the towel from John's hands. "No, no, no, I'm already doing it, let me try." Sherlock huffed again, but bend over this time. John started towelling the black hair. "Am I doing it correctly?" He asked after a while. ”Excellent” was the answer he got. He smiled to himself, actually kind of proud.

  
John couldn't help but look at the naked torso sitting in front of him. Sherlock was stunning, he had known that from the moment he saw him in the lab. He was tall, slender, and so elegant. He had seen Sherlock naked too many times in the flat. The man had no sense for privacy and usually didn't bother putting a towel on before walking to his bedroom to get dressed. This setting was different though. It was the early afternoon, the sun was shining through the window and the room was filled with a different kind of energy than normal.

  
And of course, John was standing only inches from Sherlock. He could see the little hairs on his arms. The small moles on his shoulders. The small track marks on his inner arms. The scars from different fights with criminals from before his time.  
John couldn't help but wonder if anyone had ever known Sherlock as a lover. The man had so clearly said he was _married_ to his work, but there was always room for a mistress, right? John felt jealousy for the woman who could explore Sherlock in a way he could never even come close to. Why did he all of a sudden feel jealous? He had never felt any sexual emotion for a man, so why would he start now? Well, maybe that was a lie. There was Thomas from rugby, with the broad shoulders and beautiful voice. Nick from uni, with those wonderful eyes and _magical_ hands and-  
Well, maybe he was lying to himself. Men had their attractive factors. But so did women. They had soft curves and classic features and they smelled nice.  
But Sherlock didn't belong in any of those boxes. Sherlock was special. He was elegant, he was well groomed, intellectual, most of the time a complete arse, stubborn, but he had those gorgeous eyes and plump lips and when he smiled, Johns heart would skip a beat and-

  
John forced his attention back to Sherlock. He removed his hands from Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked up and smiled at him. ”Do you feel better?” John asked with caution. Sherlock hummed and nodded.  
Suddenly the room felt too small for the two of them, John pressed his hands together. ”Well, I'm absolutely starving, so I’m going to see if I can find some food downstairs. What can I get for you?” John asked, changing the subject to not make things more awkward. ”Something sweet, ” Sherlock said, turning his attention to his bag to find clothes. ”Alright, I’ll see what I can find.”

\----------------------------

 ** _23:21_** was the time when they came home from their excursion. The traffic had been awful, so it took them hours longer than expected to arrive back home. John had driven for the most part, because he hadn't trusted Sherlock to drive safely. The detective's eyelids were drooping, but he hadn't fallen asleep in the car as John hoped.

  
They dropped their bags unceremoniously in the hallway before entering the living room. John yawned and stretched his aching back. ”I’m going to bed, you should do the same, Sherlock. You look like death warmed over.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. ”I’m _fine_ , ” he replied. John rolled his eyes back, shaking his head. ”You need sleep, you aren't a superhuman, as much as you think you are, you're not. So, is there anything I can do to help?” John moved to the kitchen. ”Have you tried chamomile tea?” he proposed. John heard Sherlock sit at the dining table. ”Of course I did. It didn't _bloody_ work.” John heard how frustrated Sherlock was about this topic. ”And pills also don't _fucking_ work. Just hit me on my head, maybe that will put me out for the night.” Sherlock groaned.  
John took a deep breath, Sherlock only cursed when he was really out of it, so this indicated enough for John. So he began boiling some water and he rummaged in the cupboards. When he was done, he pushed the mug to where Sherlock was sitting. ” _Hot chocolate_?” Sherlock asked, smirking. He took the mug in his hands and slowly sipped on it. ”Yeah, maybe it works, can't hurt to try, right?”

When Sherlock finished, he looked the same as he did before, but maybe a small bit more relaxed, but maybe he had just imagined that. ”Come on, at least lie in bed. Your body needs to be recharged, mister Robot.” John urged Sherlock to stand and guided him to his bedroom. It always surprised John how tidy this room was, especially after seeing the living room. He had to remind himself that Sherlock's ways could be never understood. He helped the somewhat drowsy man take off his jacket and shirt, and pulled his shoes off when he sat down on the bed. John tucked him in and switched off the lights.  
”John, _wait_.” he heard softly from the bed. Sherlock looked up at him, the soft glow from the window making him look almost angelic. He hesitated for a second. ”Will you… Stay?” he whispered so softly, John could almost not hear it. John was caught off guard by this statement, but regained his control quickly. ”Of course, ” he said and moved over to the empty side of the bed. He pulled off his jeans and jumper. He quickly slipped under the duvet, to not feel so exposed. ”Goodnight Sherlock,” he murmured. There was no answer.

After a half hour, John still didn't hear the deep breathing pattern of someone sleeping. ”Sherlock?” he asked softly, turning his head to see the man. Sherlock looked stressed, but mostly frustrated. ”I thought having _you_ here would help, ” Sherlock admitted. John hadn't anticipated that. He took a deep breath, searching for courage. ”Come here?” he asked softly. It took a moment but the man moved towards John and settled against him. He laid his head on Johns' chest and John softly patted his hair. ”It’s okay, go sleep now, _I’m here_.” he inhaled and smelled Sherlock. He smelled like expensive hair products and wood wax and chemicals, but John loved it. He then realized that he loved everything about the man lying next to him. He softly kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, the reply he got was a soft hum from the back of Sherlock's throat.

  
It took only moments before John felt Sherlock's body relax and fall into a deep slumber.  
John sighed in relief and it took only moments before he too fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and leave a comment if you feel like it!


	5. E-mails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requests can pile up and it can be hard to ignore the ones in need, especially when you once belonged to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for all the great replies to my stories! It brightens my day immensely! I truly hope you all will enjoy this story, it is quite different than my earlier stories. Lots of love, Izzy.

Ever since their last case had been a hit with the papers, it had enough twists and turns to keep them interested, request e-mails had been coming in unusually quick. In the beginning, both of them had been had been delighted, work meant making money and keeping Sherlock from destroying... anything, really. John had made the decision to only accept interesting cases and to deny Sherlock access to his laptop. At first, it had bothered Sherlock endlessly, but soon he liked clients just showing up and bringing an interesting case.  
But, a high also brings a low. After a couple of months, the steady stream of cases ran dry. John saw it coming earlier by the number of new e-mails in his inbox, but he tried to keep Sherlock in the dark by slowly going through the less interesting clients.

  
Of course, John couldn't keep this going for very long. Sherlock noticed on a grey winter evening. John had invited a client, who was between a four and a five on a scale Sherlock had made up. They sat down in their usual positions, the client looking exceptionally nervous. Maybe this was because Sherlock looked extra agitated, he was tapping his fingers together and nodding quickly. "Get started already!" he spat out, now standing up and pacing around the room. The client licked his lips and took a deep breath. "I've lost the antique photo album my grandmother gave me." When the man didn't continue, John urged him to elaborate. "Well, I got the album a month ago when Nana moved to a special care home. I've had it in my room ever since. I don't think anyone would wan-" He was interrupted by Sherlock. "Stop!" He turned to John, his eyes looked wild and frustrated. "This is clearly a four, John!" He grabbed the client's coat and threw it in his lap. "You pushed your special little album Nana gave you, off your desk and it slid under your cabinets." He gave the client no time to respond and kicked the backside of the chair. "Was I not clear? I solved your case, now! Leave!" The client had been sitting stunned, with his mouth slightly open, but was quickly scrambling to get all his stuff together. "I- uh- thank you, I guess," he said before the shuffled out of the flat.

  
John had been so stunned, that he hadn't even thought about saying anything while Sherlock was going bonkers. When the front door closed with a _bang_ , it was like he was snapped out of a daze.

"Sherlock! How dare you behave like that?" he stood up and walked up to the man. Sherlock looked absolutely furious. John waited for a beat for Sherlock to apologize. Sherlock didn't even try to apologize and looked at John defiantly.

"That man was willing to _actually_ pay us, and you shoved him, _literally_ , out of the apartment!" He looked into Sherlock's eyes and shook his head. "I'm so disappointed," this time John didn't give Sherlock time to reply and turned away. "You know what? I'm going to bed," he strode away quickly and went to his bedroom.

  
It's safe to say that John didn't sleep well. He never liked to go to bed angry, so he had trouble falling asleep. He kept turning and mulling the night over in his head. Sherlock could be so unpredictable and.. explosive? Although what happened was a bit Johns fault. He knew the case wasn't good enough and he kept Sherlock in the dark about the state of their e-mail requests. He sighed and glanced at his alarm clock.

 _5:30 AM_.

Well, it is technically morning and he couldn’t bear just laying in bed doing nothing. He hauled himself out of bed and padded downstairs.

  
He didn't think Sherlock would be up at this time. He thought he headed to bed when John did. But when John came downstairs, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with John's laptop on his lap in the complete darkness. His hair was ruffled and bouncing slightly as he was feverishly typing on the laptop.

John moved closer and he noticed something much more troubling about Sherlock's appearance. He looked sleep-deprived, grey eyebags a stark contrast with his pale skin in the blue light shining from the laptop. His hunched form was also quivering slightly, his hands trembling even more. It seemed like he didn't even notice John's arrival.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John inquired softly. He stepped in front of Sherlock and placed his hand on his arm. Sherlock's fingers stilled and he looked up to John. "There you are." John smiled slightly. He crouched down and closed the laptop slowly. Sherlock buried his face in his trembling hands. It had been ages since John had seen Sherlock melting down in front of him, but this didn't seem like a typical _danger_ _night_  (or morning actually). He didn't know how he could calm Sherlock down, this wasn't like anything he had seen before.

So, he asked the most cliche question he could think of, "What is wrong, Sherlock?" When the man didn't reply, John gently pried Sherlock's hands away from his face. He held them firmly and tried again, "Tell me what's bothering you, please." he pleaded. Sherlock took a shuddering breath and squeezed John's hands. He frowned and closed his eyes when he still couldn't find the words to explain his emotions. "It's _okay_ , take your time, I'm here," John said soothingly, gently rubbing his hands. After a couple moments he, again, took a deep breath through his nose and said, "I.. I can't help.. _help_ them all" he said as he breathed out. "I need to help them." He said and looked at John.

John immediately knew what Sherlock was talking about, all the _pro deo_ cases they had gotten requests for. There were hundreds of e-mails begging for help from the famous Sherlock Holmes. People who told the stories of daughters gone missing, of police brutality, of abusive partners who needed to be locked away forever, and much more. When they made the e-mail account for case requests, John had read all the e-mails, but he found it hard to ignore the requests they couldn't fulfil. He hadn't thought about how hard that would be for Sherlock. There must have been hundreds of e-mails.

"Oh, Sherlock." grabbed Sherlock's face and pulled him down, towards him. Sherlock let himself slide on his knees, the laptop sliding down and hitting the Persian carpet with a soft _thump_. John pulled him to his chest and soon they were just a tangle of limbs. He leaned against his own chair and gently stroked Sherlock's curls.

  
They were a _mess_. A true mess, but they were a mess John loved.

  
Sherlock's breathing was still shallow, which concerned John. He needed to calm Sherlock down, so he began murmuring into the tangle of black curls. He talked about the people at the surgery, about tales from university and the training for the military. He whispered about what he did in the summers in the countryside as a kid. How he ran around in the cornfields, moo'ed back at cows, helped cows give birth and hid in the straw in the barn.

  
Soon, they breathed in unison, in the partial silence of London waking up.

The morning sun made 221B look an old photograph. The sun highlighted the dust in the air, the cracks in the ceiling and most beautiful of all; the face of the man he was entangled with.  
John had to admit, he wasn't comfortable on the ground. He didn't feel his bum, his feet were numb and his neck was in a crick. This all didn't matter, this didn't matter as long Sherlock felt better in his arms.  
"How about some tea?" he asked quietly. Sherlock hummed and moved away from John. "Earl Grey?" Sherlock asked with a raw voice while holding his hand out to haul John up. "Sure, thank you." he smiled at Sherlock, who was still looking like death warmed over but now had a slight flush on his cheeks.  
Sherlock began making tea and John took this time to stretch and crack his body in all the places it needed. He could have sat like that for hours when he was younger, but now, he had to accept that his body was growing older.

He bent over to grab the laptop and took it to the dining table.  
They sat down at opposite sides and John took the time to enjoy his tea for a bit, his mouth was dry after all that storytelling. Sherlock had his head hanging low, seemingly focussing on the cuppa in his (elegant) hands.

As John opened the laptop, Sherlock's head shot up. "I-- John- _no_ ," he said, trying to shut the laptop. "Hey! This is my laptop remember, let me look." He said and began scrolling through the inbox. He saw new e-mails, with a lot of enthusiastic 'thank you!' messages and overall just loads of love towards Sherlock. He opened a couple and read the replies Sherlock had given. There were replies were Sherlock was helping by explaining the law, the English court system and literally solving cases and offering his help if (still) needed. He looked up to the man sitting in front of him. He smiled and received a grin back.

They sat at the table for an hour, while John went through the mails and tried to reply as much as he could, with help from Sherlock when needed.  
Sherlock wanted to stand up, but John stopped him in his tracks. "We need to talk about how we're going to handle these requests, we can't, or _I_ can't ignore any longer."

 

* * *

 

  
That was how they came up with the plan to work on the ‘real’ _pro_ _deo_ cases once a week for four hours (if needed more, but usually Sherlock could solve 3 easy cases within an hour). They moved the legal problems and inquiries to a worker from the yard, who replied to those e-mails. John could see it did Sherlock good to work on easy cases and help youthful struggling people.

Maybe he saw a bit of his younger self in them, the way he was when he met Lestrade, the time Lestrade had told John about.

Lestrade had been the way out for Sherlock and maybe now Sherlock wanted to _give_ a way out.


	6. NYE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants John to have a great night, but things never go as planned. 
> 
> I suffer from bad headaches and this is lightly based on an NYE a year ago.

Christmas was bad enough. Christmas has an overload of smells, sights, flavours, so every year was a small hell for Sherlock. He despised the social aspect. He hated the joy it gave people. People seemed to get a shot of life juice in mid-December and act like they were the happiest people in the goddamn world.  
They were hypocrites.  
To be frank, Christmas was nothing in comparison with that year's NYE.  
December 31th had a fine start. It was sunny and not freezing (thank you, climate change) and John was in a lovely mood. For a change, Sherlock had slept that night. Everything was set for a perfectly fine New Years Eve.

 

* * *

 

 

Around 5 pm, John had started to tidy the flat for the guests. This was entirely John's idea. "I want to have friends around to start the New Year right." he had said. Sherlock had lifted his brow at this statement but didn't argue, he wanted John to start the year happy and not grumpily cooped up inside because of him. So, Sherlock even helped John tidy the flat. They moved everything around so the flat would have room for everyone. Sherlock placed his chemistry equipment somewhere safe and he even cleaned out every human part and science experiment out of the kitchen.  
John was hanging up decorations, glittery gold garlands and some other gold decor, while Sherlock was preparing tea for a break.  
John sat down in his chair when Sherlock was finishing up the tea. He grabbed both cups, earl grey for John and a blend he had gotten from Mycroft for Christmas for himself, and moved into the sitting room. When he walked from the dim light of the kitchen to the sitting room, where the bright light was streaming into the room, Sherlock froze for a moment.  
The light shot into his eyes, startling him, but most of all, it shot sky blue sparkling pain into his neck. He felt himself sway lightly and tightly gripped the teacups. He clenched his eyes shut. _No_ , he thought. _Not_ _today_ , _not_ _tonight_. _Deep_ _breath_ _in_.  
He opened his eyes and set down the teacups on the coffee table, trying to ignore John's slightly worried look. Sherlock still felt the slight prickling, but it disappeared as soon as he took a sip of his tea.

"You alright?" John said, _tap tap tapping_ the side of his cup. "What? Of course, why shouldn't I be?" Sherlock stuttered and breathed in the soft fragrance of the tea. "You seemed to stagger a bit, just over there," John said, with a 'matter of fact' tone. "I was just thinking about a case," Sherlock began but was interrupted by Mrs Hudson shuffling inside. "John, I've made crackers with several dips, strawberry punch, chocolate mousse, and I bought some chips. Do you think that will be enough?" She rubbed her hands together nervously. "Oh, Mrs Hudson!" John said sympathetically and jumped up to meet her. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a big hug. "It's perfect. Thank you so much!" He released her and she grinned. "John, you're making me blush!" He slapped him softly, "Now, you boys get ready, the guests will be coming in around 8, so you have a bit more than half an hour."

 

* * *

 

  
The flat was filled to its capacity. Friends and family were mingling with each other, people were laughing too loud at jokes which weren't funny, some people (Harry) were even singing along with the music John had put on. The sky blue sparkles came back with full force and bloomed into violet spikes. He took a sharp breath and tried to force the feeling of nausea down.

  
He leaned against the fire mantle. Lestrade joined him. "So, any new years resolutions? I know it's mundane and all that, but maybe you have some ideas?" When Sherlock didn't react immediately, he continued; "I know I want to finally _really_ stop smoking." Sherlock couldn't help snort at this comment. "You know you'll never manage, Greg. Only a couple handful of people manage to stop their bad habits. You have a stressful job, you don't have the energy to combat addiction. Good try though." Greg laughed (too loud) and smacked Sherlock on his shoulder. Sherlock tried not to flinch and turned away to the bathroom for some peace and quiet. He was already in the hallway when he heard (a slightly tipsy) Molly yell; "Sherlock! Play for us!" _No_. _Don't_ _do_ _this_ _to_ _me_ , Sherlock thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to find the energy and courage to play some songs for his friends.

  
"Fine!" He turned around with flair and smiled to the people standing in the living room. John was already holding his violin and bow, and Sherlock couldn't help but note how careful John was holding her. "Any requests?" He asked before taking her in his hands.  
His violin always had a calming effect on him. The prickling pain in the base of his head was numbed for a minute as he felt the cool wood in his hands. When the only request was: "Something pretty!" He started playing a piece he had composed for John to soothe him after nightmares.  
He played quite stiff, his neck was sore and his shoulders hurt. His fingers didn't play as elegant as he wanted, they were slow and stuttered if that is what you could call it. He could almost feel Mycroft's gaze on his back, the man was probably the only one who noticed his playing lacked his usual aptitude.  
When he finished, the people in the room cheered and clapped. "That was beautiful, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson cheered. He bowed lightly and put his violin back in the case.

"Now, let's really party!"John cheered and cranked the music up.  
The pain bloomed in long tendrils in his brain, pulling and prodding in places he didn't want. He shuddered and tried to move through the dancing mass. The pain was hot in his hands and cold in his head. It made the room around him wobble and shake. He made it to the stairwell, now shaking fully. He couldn't keep himself upright anymore, so he leaned against the wall, which made his skin crawl in distress from sensitivity. He groaned although he didn't want to and the only thing he could think was: "this was supposed to be a good night for John."

He was only away from the room for minutes when the door opened again and someone entered the stairwell. Sherlock flinched and he slid down the wall as result. He knew who it was from the smell; _Mycroft_.  
He entered his blurry vision, looking older than Sherlock remembered him. Sherlock let his face crumble when another wail of laughter reached his ears. He _hated_ whenever someone saw him like this. This night wasn't supposed to be like this. They needed to have fun. He thought he could will the pain away.  
"Brother mine," Mycroft whispered, while kneeling in front of him. His suit looked crumpled. He missed the brother he knew, the British Government, the Ice King, the cold machine. It looked so wrong. It made his thoughts swim.

"Migraine?" he asked with a low voice. He knew the answer. Mycroft closed his eyes in sympathy.

"Don't... do not stop the party." He said with a breathy voice. He hated being this vulnerable.

"I'll get doctor Watson." His brother's presence was gone before he could stop him. He moaned with frustration. John was the last person he wanted to steer away from the party.

The sight of Sherlock was apparently enough to sober John up. He entered his vision looking as steady as ever. "Hi." he smiled and took Sherlock's hands in his. Sherlock tried to smile back but another wave of pain came over him and he curled more into himself. "We need to get you to bed, do you think you'll be able to walk?" Sherlock didn't wait to reply, because he was already standing up. Not that he was very successful, he wobbled and swayed and soon felt four hands supporting him. "Okay, take it easy," John whispered and Mycroft and John turned him slowly and moved together to the hallway.

  
It had gotten quiet in the apartment, but Sherlock didn't have the energy to inspect why it had gotten so quiet. Molly would tell them later that John had switched the music off as soon as he saw Mycroft’s worries face. The rest of the group just took over this worry, apparently, and stayed as quiet as they could.

When they were close to the bedroom door loud _booms_ seemed to come from everywhere around him. His knees gave out as electric green sparks lighted his body on fire and his vision wavered.

Apparently, no one had expected the fireworks, because neither John nor Mycroft were quick enough to hold his weight before his knees connected with the ground. "Fuck," John cursed under his breath, as they tried to haul him up again. His legs didn't want to cooperate so the men had difficulties with getting him moving again, without hurting him accidentally.  
Before he knew what was happening, he was laid down on the ground. This caused the world to turn even more around him. He was willing to give in on the darkness around him when there was suddenly silence.

  
_Complete and utter silence._

It caused his ears to buzz. He opened his eyes slowly and saw John hovering above him. He mouthed something. Sherlock couldn't make out what he was trying to make clear. He let his eyes fall closed again and enjoyed the silence and soft feeling it caused the inside of his head to have.

  
It was noise-cancelling headphones, he suddenly realized.

He smiled to himself, glad he had friends who maybe, just maybe, had some brains. They had better brains than his head which was now filled with cotton balls.

  
Something heavy was laid on top of his eyes, which he later would find out was a rice filled pouch, Molly used to soothe her shoulder pains at work. He let out a sigh. The pain was still there but at least it wasn't worsened by any input. 

He was fighting to stay awake, but his energy was slipping away fast. Every painful prick, prod, stab and tingle took some of his energy and before he knew, his consciousness evaded him and he fell into darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up with a rush of adrenaline. He tried to sit up but dull pain shot into his head. He felt two steady hands on his shoulder who held him down gently. He opened his eyes and saw John, ever-present John. Soothing John.

The light and saviour.

Sherlock smiled.

He didn't think about where they were lying, where the other people were, what time it was, or anything else. He just saw John and that was enough.

  
John smoothed Sherlock's hair, which was sticking in every way from laying on a DIY blanket bed on the floor.

  
After some quiet minutes Sherlock felt a pang of sharp guilt, _he_ _had_ _ruined_ _the_ _night_. "I'm _sorry_." he blurted out. "I ruined your new year-"  
John stopped him by softly taking off the headphones. "Stop that."

He said with a stern tone. "But your party," Sherlock interjected, "and the fireworks-" John smiled and shook his head.

  
"Don't feel sorry you git, I only wanted to spend the night with you, that's the only thing I want." Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat as he saw the love emitted from John’s very being. It was definitely one of the effects of the migraine, but who cares? He saw a glow around John, which he normally just always _felt_.

John was stroking his cheek softly and humming a song. ”Thank you.” Sherlock said in a small voice. John smiled even brighter and leaned closer.

They _kissed_.

It was a kiss that was long expected, but now was the right time. Even with them both having morning breath. Even with the pain in Sherlock's whole body. It needed to be done.

Sherlock didn't mind. He melted into John and was happy to be distracted from agony waiting in the back of his mind. 

  
It was no new years kiss, but close enough at 03:43 AM. It was enough for them both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy NYE everyone! Here's to a great 2019! 
> 
> Don't forget to comment and maybe leave kudo's?


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